When First We Practice
by Soleil2
Summary: What if Harm and Mac had been married when the last episodes occurred.
1. Default Chapter

Title: When First We Practice  
  
Author: Soleil  
  
Spoilers: Let's be on the safe side and say absolutely everything is fair game...  
  
Author's Notes: Okay, so this story comes from a comment Kip made about handling Catherine Bell's pregnancy. He said that the audience would feel cheated if they had suddenly announced that Harm and Mac had secretly gotten married... See where I'm going?  
  
Title comes from Sir Walter Scott: "Oh what tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive."  
  
She rested her head against the hand holding the telephone receiver. He wasn't coming home again tonight. The excuses were the same: he had to work late; it was more convenient to stay in the city rather than fight the traffic. The words were empty, carrying no more weight than the air it took to expel them. It was almost as if she could hear the words he wasn't saying. Wouldn't say, regardless of how bad things were between them. 'I don't trust you. I can't look at you.' She heard them anyway. She heard them because they danced around her head when she looked at him.  
  
They spent most their time away from each other. Taking cases and assignments that required long hours and longer distances. Around the house, contact was limited to accidental brushes and deliberately asexual touches. It was just a matter of time before one of them cracked under the weight of the air in the house.  
  
It was just a matter of four minutes from when she hung up the phone before she realized that she couldn't live like this, whatever this was. She had phone calls to make and a suitcase to pack. And then, hopefully, with lots of luck and persuading, she was leaving home.  
  
A summer breeze picked at the corner of the note. Lifting the paper until there was enough space to work its way under the square. The breeze pushed at until the note swayed gently to the floor. The white contrasted sharply with the dark grain of the wood. Content in its spot, safe from the breeze, the note would rest there for another three days before he returned home and read it.  
  
He would read it three times before the black ink formed words that made sense to him. He wouldn't crumple it or even tear it up. But he'd throw it out before pouring himself a glass of water. He would tell himself that he knew the day was coming, that maybe he was a little relieved, but none of that would be true. It would still be a shock and disappointment and it would still hurt like hell. 


	2. chapter 2

The Atlantic Ocean was a solid gray-green under grayer skies. It was raining, something it seemed to do a lot in recent days. She hugged her knees tighter to her chest as she tried to remember the last sunny day. The weather forecast promised beachgoers perfect tanning weather tomorrow; they only had to suffer through one more dreary, cold day.  
It didn't matter to her. It wasn't why she was here. She had run to the Jersey coastline to escape, not to vacation. In true best friend fashion, her oldest friend from college had opened her doors and arms to offer refuge. With two boys in residence, along with a snake, two dogs, and a cat, the house was the opposite of what she had left behind. Melinda, a full time mother, had moved her brood to the family shore house for the summer, forcing her husband to commute to work. Although he grumbled, the good-natured complaints were so far from the cold silence that she'd gotten used to that she felt better than she had in weeks.  
Maybe it was cowardly. Maybe it was running when sticking would be better. But she had learned at an early age that you pick your battles. Sighing, she took another sip of her coffee and watched the waves roll in. This was not a battle that she could win. Eventually, her vacation would end, work would call her home, or he would figure out where she was hiding. The fights would start and it would be just a matter of time before one of them said they wanted to end it. End them. And then, no matter how much sobbing, no matter how many whispered 'I didn't mean its' there were, those words would always be there, hanging in the spaces between them. They would wait until the day when the other person turned around and said, "You were right. We should end this."  
In truth, she didn't want to end it. But she knew the words were hovering, waiting until he said something that would cause her to lash out at him. They were the only words that she possessed that could hurt him into silence. So she horded them in the back of her mouth, waiting, waiting, waiting, until the day she needed them.  
  
He almost fished the note out of the trashcan once. Almost but ended up tying the bag up and dumping it in the trash compactor. It made him feel mean, somehow, small. But in the long run, he decided that if they ever chose to fight, whether they would be fighting for their relationship or fighting to see who would win, he didn't know, they didn't need the added arsenal provided by the note.  
It didn't matter, he had it memorized. He could trace the peaks and valleys of her precise handwriting in his mind. Is that what bothered him? That the note was neat, like a final copy of a 'thank you' note rather than a plea for understanding. Where were the blotches that indicated tears? The cross outs that told him she had too many thoughts, too jumbled to be written neatly? He tore through the apartment, shamelessly rifling through papers in her desk looking for revisions or drafts of the impossibly neat note.  
He was in the middle of dumping out a drawer onto the area rug when he realized that nothing would change. It wouldn't make the words suddenly disappear or give them new meaning. What he really wanted to find were the omitted lines. The lines that begged him to beg her to stay. The lines that promised him that it wasn't as easy as packing a suitcase for her to go.  
Her cell phone would be on; she wouldn't turn it off for fear of an emergency. Rationally, he knew that she would come home as fast as her car could drive her if called and said it was an emergency. 'Come home, I need you. I want you back here.' But he couldn't say the words because they weren't entirely true. He did need her but whether or not he was ready for her to come home - that was an entirely different matter.  
After all, he rested his elbows on his knees, she did leave him. After vowing never to leave, she ran from him and from them. 'But isn't that what you've been doing?' a voice asked him. All the late nights? All the working dinners with people from the office?  
"Not the same thing," he answered out loud, his voice echoing in the empty room. At least he stayed in the city. She could be anywhere on the East Coast. Or the world, really. Anywhere at all, so long as it wasn't there.  
Which was what the note said: "I don't know where I'm going. Anywhere at all, really. I just know I can't stay here in an empty apartment a minute longer. I'm sorry. I'm not doing this to hurt you. You won't believe me, but I promise you, it's the truth. I'll call you soon. Love you."  
That was it. The brevity of it shocked him. No names, no dates. He didn't even know when she left, really. He'd been gone for three days. For three days, he'd been blissfully unaware that his wife was gone. Those were a wonderful three days. 


	3. chapter 3

He almost fished the note out of the trashcan once. Almost but ended up tying the bag up and dumping it in the trash compactor. It made him feel mean, somehow, small. But in the long run, he decided that if they ever chose to fight, whether they would be fighting for their relationship or fighting to see who would win, he didn't know, they didn't need the added arsenal provided by the note.  
  
It didn't matter, he had it memorized. He could trace the peaks and valleys of her precise handwriting in his mind. Is that what bothered him? That the note was neat, like a final copy of a 'thank you' note rather than a plea for understanding. Where were the blotches that indicated tears? The cross outs that told him she had too many thoughts, too jumbled to be written neatly? He tore through the apartment, shamelessly rifling through papers in her desk looking for revisions or drafts of the impossibly neat note.  
  
He was in the middle of dumping out a drawer onto the area rug when he realized that nothing would change. It wouldn't make the words suddenly disappear or give them new meaning. What he really wanted to find were the omitted lines. The lines that begged him to beg her to stay. The lines that promised him that it wasn't as easy as packing a suitcase for her to go.  
  
Her cell phone would be on; she wouldn't turn it off for fear of an emergency. Rationally, he knew that she would come home as fast as her car could drive her if called and said it was an emergency. 'Come home, I need you. I want you back here.' But he couldn't say the words because they weren't entirely true. He did need her but whether or not he was ready for her to come home - that was an entirely different matter.  
  
After all, he rested his elbows on his knees, she did leave him. After vowing never to leave, she ran from him and from them. 'But isn't that what you've been doing?' a voice asked him. All the late nights? All the working dinners with people from the office?  
  
"Not the same thing," he answered out loud, his voice echoing in the empty room. At least he stayed in the city. She could be anywhere on the East Coast. Or the world, really. Anywhere at all, so long as it wasn't there.  
  
Which was what the note said: "I don't know where I'm going. Anywhere at all, really. I just know I can't stay here in an empty apartment a minute longer. I'm sorry. I'm not doing this to hurt you. You won't believe me, but I promise you, it's the truth. I'll call you soon. Love you."  
  
That was it. The brevity of it shocked him. No names, no dates. He didn't even know when she left, really. He'd been gone for three days. For three days, he'd been blissfully unaware that his wife was gone. Those were a wonderful three days.  
  
The first big mistake they'd made was eloping. It made marriage too simple. So simple really that the fallout they'd experienced wasn't a major problem. Friends, co-workers, and family members seemed to understand. Although, occasionally, when they were discussing weddings and showers, she still received hurt glances. She didn't care. She'd won. She'd gotten him and all the complications of him. How was she to know that would never be or have enough in her to simplify them?  
  
Maybe if they'd fought over caterers or music selections, they'd have realized that it wasn't as easy as saying the vows. They had to be meant, too. Maybe they weren't meant to be. If they had been, would it have been so easy, so easy for both of them, to slip into a charade? To pretend the other didn't exist long enough to think the could be with other people? Would it have been harder to forget to if they'd had to struggle to get to that point? And did fighting over the number of guests equate with fighting over dishes, clothes, and near misses?  
  
And did he feel the same way she did? Like a cheap whore who almost sold herself for some pretty words and some tender gestures? More importantly, did he understand why she almost did? Because significant looks weren't enough when she could have the words. Even if the emotions behind them would only have lasted as long as it would have taken for her to unhook her bra.  
  
She couldn't stand the stares anymore. She knew her co-workers blamed her for the tensions in the office. They knew he saw her kiss another man, because even if it was halfway around the world, everyone still knew everything that happened between them. Which is how she found out that he kissed another woman. But he was safe, because he did it to find her, and she only did it to comfort a dying man. He was dead now. Laid to rest beside his father, leaving his poor mother, leaving her to face the scrutiny, the speculation, and the debriefings from their fiasco. And, oh God, she was sorry. Sorry she couldn't help him more, sorry that she couldn't take away his pain at the end. Sorry that she let him die believing a half-lie.  
  
And somehow, the entire staff overlooked his pretend marriage. It was a double standard. The office forgave the Commander because they needed a hero. They no longer trusted her because they needed a Delilah and she was nominated. 


	4. chapter 4

He was sitting in a darkened apartment. It was his own act of rebellion. He couldn't leave her; she'd taken that option away from him. This was his way of telling her, screw you. Since their return from the Paraguayan jungle, the apartment had been bathed in light. Little trails of lamps and light bulbs created pathways so that she was never alone in the dark until she closed her eyes. He never minded it, but he didn't understand it, either. Then again, he wasn't the one who had the nightmares - nightmares were accompanied by bed shaking tremors.  
The first time it happened, he'd been so panicky that he almost drove her to hospital to have her checked for epilepsy. Eventually, they grew more infrequent, surfacing only when she was stressed or overly tired. But now, she was gone and the bed didn't shake and the apartment was dark and quiet.  
The phone's ring startled him. "Hello?"  
"I'm okay." Her voice was soft and quiet.  
"Come home."  
The sigh warbled over the phone lines. "I - I can't.. Not yet."  
"Mac."  
"I'm not ready," she interrupted forcefully. In the background, he heard a crash, followed by what sounded like a war whoop. A dog barked staccato beats. Surprised by the phone call, he was shocked when he heard her giggle.  
"Where are you?"  
"A friend's." The amusement trickled out of her voice. "I - I have to go. I'll try to call again. Soon."  
"Sarah, we have to talk." He leaned forward, elbows rest on his knees. As if she could see the urgency through the phone.  
"I'll call again. I promise." Her voice broke on the promise. Before he could respond, she muttered her good-byes and hung up.  
The caller id box, the one upon which she had insisted, flashed 609 before an unfamiliar number. New Jersey. That meant Melinda. At least she was on the East Coast. He flicked the light back on. It seemed pointless to sit around in a dark apartment now that he knew she wouldn't see his spite.  
  
It was odd to be the victim of the office stares again. He'd gotten used to the sympathetic glances cast his way every time they entered the bullpen. When he was thinking clearly, he knew that he should put a stop to it. Tell everyone that Sarah was as much, if not more so, a victim of this fuck up as he was. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. The hurt part of him craved the sympathy doled out by his co-workers. He'd gone through too much, been put through too much, that he couldn't or wouldn't stop Sturgis or Harriet from giving her hurtful and distrustful glances.  
She had been transformed from an angel to a harlot in such a rapid turnaround that it even made him dizzy. The bullpen had morphed from a place of refuge and open arms to a tundra once the story of the kiss leaked. He knew how it happened, too: Sturgis had asked about the distance between them. In a moment of candor, overheard by a nosy employee, Harm told him. The blame started immediately.  
She felt it from everyone but the Admiral. He alone, and the weight of his authority, kept her from becoming a pariah in the office. Lord knew he certainly hadn't done anything to stop it. Maybe it was because the Admiral had sat in on the debriefings for which Harm didn't have clearance. Maybe he heard things that her nightmare induced ramblings didn't reveal. Maybe. But he didn't think that was the cause. He knew the Admiral held her in high regards. Might even love her in some way. Any other time and he might have been jealous, but right now he was ridiculously grateful that she was getting support from someone, anyone at all.  
Whispers in the political arenas talked about recruiting her. The CIA wanted her badly. She picked up languages easily. She could blend in if they needed her to do so or could stand out like a princess among peasants if they needed that. So far, she had resisted. She'd rejected the lunches meant to court her, the talk of benefits that were supposed to appeal to her rational side. He hadn't given it much thought; he'd just assumed that she would remain at JAG. But now, now that he was receiving the questioning glances, the looks that darted between her empty office and his, he wondered how she had stood it. Why hadn't she fled from this place and the people in it?  
The timeline of his life was divided into distinct segments, pockmarked by major events. Tracing it in his mind, he divided the days and years into chunks, each period beginning and ending with major events. Childhood lasted until year six. The Naval Academy was its own period of time. His return to flying marked another period. And now he could add life before Paraguay and life after Paraguay to the line. Before Paraguay, he never really feared the dark paneled office of their CO. Despite the Admiral's reluctance, he'd allowed him to return - both to JAG and the Navy. It was something he'd gambled on when he handed in his resignation.  
  
But as he stood at attention before the Admiral's desk, he had begun to question whether he was allowed back because the Admiral wanted him there or whether it was for her sake. The older man was upset with him. It was evident in the way his forehead creased when he had called him into his office. He hadn't looked up from his papers, letting him stand at attention for ten minutes before he gestured to the chairs in front of him without looking up at him. "Have a seat, Commander." A clock continued to measure off the beats while he ignored him. Finally, he finished reading the report he was perusing, signed it, and handed it to him. "Give this to Lieutenant Roberts for me, would you?"  
Without waiting for his response, he laced his fingers together and leaned heavily on his forearms. "I received a call from your wife today." His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch in a silent question.  
It was a question he didn't understand. "Sir?" he countered with a question of his own.  
"She requested additional leave." Seeing the younger man's expression fall at the news, he had the answer he needed. He didn't know. Hell, it was likely that he didn't know where the woman was. "I gave it to her," he added. "Only ten extra days, but-" he broke off. It didn't matter. They both knew what he wouldn't give voice to. Hopefully, the ten extra days would be enough to clear the air, to erase the hostility towards her. That, maybe, possibly, when she returned, she'd have a reason to stay.  
The clock continued to tick measure the beats of his life post- Paraguay. The men sat in silence, both secretly hoping that she would walk through the door. Closed doors, he decided, were rapidly becoming his enemy. He kept waiting for her to open them. When she didn't and the Admiral returned to his paperwork, he pushed himself out of his chair. "Thank you, Sir." Thank you for taking me back; thank you for taking her side.  
"Shut the door behind you." He did not look up from his desk, but nodded his head in acknowledgement. It was as close to a truce as they would reach until everything else sorted itself out. 


	5. chapter 5

Sand loses its heat quickly at night. It clung stubbornly to her toes as she  
  
made her way to the jetty. Melinda chatted by her side, arms gesturing wildly  
  
as she described an accident that her boys created at school.  
  
"Sarah," she broke into her own thoughts suddenly.  
  
"Hmmm?" She pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands before  
  
wrapping her arms around her torso. The wind off the ocean whipped her hair  
  
across her eyes. She turned her face into it and shook her hair back.  
  
"Not that I don't love having you here, and you know you can stay here as  
  
long as you want and need, but have you thought about what you're going to  
  
do? About going back, I mean?" Moonlight glinted dully off her pale hair.  
  
Melinda's frown was a dark shadow across her face.  
  
She shook her head again and then shrugged. "No. I don't know." Misery  
  
wrapped itself around her shoulders like an old companion. She sniffled.  
  
"Mel-"  
  
"What is it, Sweetie?"  
  
"I didn't know." She took a deep breath and exhaled shakily.  
  
"What, didn't know what?"  
  
"That it would be so bad." Her arms fell to her sides. She clutched  
  
Melinda's arm. "Oh, God, Mel. What do I do? They all hate me. He hates me."  
  
Melinda stopped walking and pulled her into a hug. "No, baby. They  
  
don't hate you. He doesn't hate you."  
  
"I messed up so badly," she sniffled into Melinda's shoulder.  
  
"Stop it. Stop it right now." She pulled back and gripped her shoulders.  
  
"Yes. You messed up. But you weren't the only on. He messed up, too."  
  
"Nothing sticks to him." She spun away to pace across the dunes. "He's  
  
like Teflon."  
  
"Then make it stick. You always sell yourself short when it comes to  
  
him. You're not alone in this one. He messed up. Make him see that."  
  
Her breath caught as she swallowed sobs. She had wanted him so badly,  
  
for so long, that she had been willing to give so much just to have him. She'd  
  
brushed aside the comments, the barbs, and all the times he walked away from  
  
her. But, in the same vein, he'd done the same. Maybe if they'd fought their  
  
way through them, instead of traveling long distances to avoid their problems,  
  
they wouldn't be in the situation they were in now. Now, they knew their  
  
weaknesses so well, they the could make an Olympic sport seeing how far they  
  
could go just to hurt each other.  
  
"I just don't want to fight anymore," she said at length. "I'm so sick  
  
of fighting with him. For him.  
  
"Sometimes you need to make a bigger mess to clean the original," Melinda  
  
intoned with mock solemnity.  
  
Mac lowered herself onto the sand and hugged her knees tightly to her  
  
chest. "Won't be able to do this much longer."  
  
"Enjoy it while it lasts." Melinda eased her body down beside her.  
  
"I was-" she broke off and brushed her away from her mouth. Strands stuck  
  
to her cheeks. "I was hoping - oh it's so stupid."  
  
"What's so stupid?" Melinda's hand soothed down her back.  
  
"Me. I had this idea, this fantasy, that he'd come for me. That he'd come  
  
and find me."  
  
Her hand paused as she chewed on her lower lip. After a few seconds of  
  
silence, she offered tentatively, "Maybe - maybe you need to go after him? He  
  
followed you to Panama or Paraguay or wherever the hell it was."  
  
"Paraguay," she answered absently. "Maybe." Her gaze drifted towards  
  
the ocean. In the dark, the waves looked more menacing, blending with the  
  
night sky to form a solid black. Their noise filled the spaces left in the absence  
  
of conversation and surrounded the two women. The tide was going out.  
  
Tomorrow morning, the boys will race out of the house to collect the shells  
  
left by the receding waves. Tomorrow, the ocean will be a shelf of green under blue  
  
skies. Boats will dot its surface and beachgoers will turn it into a  
  
playground again. "Maybe," she repeated. "But not yet."  
  
"Not yet," Melinda agreed. "Soon, but not yet."  
  
"Yeah." She spun her wedding band around her finger with her thumb.  
  
"Soon." 


	6. chapter 6

It was a standoff.  
The room had been dark when he tossed the keys on the kitchen counter. His summer whites, a dull gray in the waning light, created a focal point for her as he moved to the refrigerator. In her black sundress and black sweater, she blended into the shadows. He didn't jump when he noticed her, didn't give any indication that he thought seeing her was important. Instead, he continued to drink water straight from the bottle, something he knew she hated, while watching her watch him.  
Neither one spoke, not wanting to relinquish control over the situation. He was angry with her. Angry for leaving, for not coming back when he asked, and for coming back before he was ready. He couldn't think of anything that he could say that would keep the anger back or keep her from going.  
With a flick of her wrist, she turned the lamp on next to her. Pale light eased across the dark corner, painting her in a bizarre chiaroscuro. It slid across her hair and face, casting shadows over her cheekbones and lower lip.  
"You're back," was all he could think to say. And she didn't look happy about it. She was still watching him, as if trying to figure out whether he was happy to see her. Well, he decided, she could keep looking, because he wasn't sure himself.  
"I'm back," she repeated unnecessarily, confirming what her presence already told him.  
He wanted to ask her how long she was going to stay this time. If he would wake up one morning to find the bed empty, her clothes gone, and a rinsed out coffee cup in the sink. "So," he paused, unsure of how to proceed. He lowered himself to the arm of the couch. Absently, he drummed his fingers against its side, beating a staccato rhythm. He exhaled sharply, filling the apartment with inconsequential sounds.  
She pulled a pillow tightly to her chest, burying her chin in it. "I," her voice broke. "I don't quite know what to do," she tried again.  
He shrugged and stood up abruptly. "Do whatever you want. I'm going to change."  
"We need to talk." She followed him into the bedroom. When he came out of the bathroom, she was huddled over another pillow from the bed. Her eyes were cast down, studying the corner of the mattress and floor intently.  
He tugged a shirt over his head. "I couldn't." He stopped. Frustrated with himself and the way the conversation was going. Sighing, he started again. "I couldn't come after you again."  
"I wanted you to," she confessed to the pillow.  
"Yeah," he said. "I know."  
Angling her head to him, she asked, "What do we do now?" Her fingers twisted the corner of the pillow between them.  
"I guess-" The phone interrupted him. He frowned at it, debating whether to answer it.  
"Let the machine get it," she begged.  
"It could be important."  
Her hand clamped down on his arm. It was the first time she had touched him in weeks. "This is important."  
Bud's voice filled the apartment. Telling them that Harriet had gone into labor. Reluctantly, she released his arm and the pillow. She nodded at him. "You should go." She bit her lower lip and turned away.  
"Aren't you coming?" he asked, surprised when he saw her scoot up the bed.  
"I don't think so," she said quietly. Her bottom jaw trembled slightly before she bit her lip again. Lying on her side, she curled her body around another pillow.  
His hand reached out. It would be easier for everyone if she stayed home. He didn't know who would be at the hospital or how long they would be there. It would be easier if she stayed home, but so much better for him if she would take his hand. 


	7. Chapter 7

She trailed behind him like a reluctant shadow, so most of the people in the waiting room missed her presence. They were getting so used to not seeing her that they failed to look for her. The Admiral was the first to notice her. He pulled her into a light hug. His conduct told the people watching them exactly how he expected them to treat her. She was one of theirs. It was time they remembered it.  
  
"Good to have you back, Colonel." His voice was loud enough for everyone to hear him. Into her ear, he whispered, "He missed you."  
  
He felt her nod against his shoulder. "Thank you, Sir."  
  
When she stepped back, he noticed that she drifted back to Harm's side. Some things would never change. She depended on him to make her feel safe. And some things, he thought, did change. His critical eye noticed her more rounded stomach. Not enough to be classified as showing, but to anyone who knew the Colonel before noticeable.  
  
She caught him staring and blushed. One hand smoothed the front of her dress self-consciously and rested there for a minute. Rabb saw the gesture and reached for her other hand. They smiled tentatively at each other. Baby steps, the Admiral thought. Baby steps. 


	8. chapter 8

Time was contrary. Each minute stretched by like an hour but she was surprised to realize that they had been sitting in the waiting room for close to three hours. The Admiral had appointed himself her guardian, sandwiching her between him and Meredith when Sturgis asked for Harm's opinion about an investigation. As a judge, she was forced to maintain neutrality and couldn't discuss it on the off chance she presided over it at a later date. So she was stuck, sitting between her CO and his fiancée, forced to make enthusiastic sounds about the wedding plans when all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball or fight with her husband.  
Almost absently, the Admiral would pat her back occasionally, a bolstering hand between her shoulder blades when she started to sag. Meredith pulled out bridal magazine after bridal magazine as a distraction. The older couple was waging a war on her behalf against the awkward pauses and questioning glances and she was grateful for their support. Slowly, the room's occupants were warming to her, some even going as far as sending her sheepish, apologetic smiles. From her secure position, she was able to return them hesitantly.  
Her eyes scanned the room. Tiner and Coates were debating whether the proper name for their soft drinks was soda or pop. They had tried to engage others in the debate but, when they failed to net new participants, settled for the classic jimmies or sprinkles argument. As she continued her search of the room, she noticed that Sturgis was by himself. She hadn't seen him leave the room.  
She sighed deeply, meriting another pat from the Admiral. Once, even if she didn't acknowledge it, she knew every time he entered or exited a room. She could pick him out in the crowded bullpen or find him in a bar filled with strangers. How had she gotten to the point where she didn't notice his absence in a room where there was only a handful of people?  
  
The Admiral followed her gaze. He held back a disappointed sigh when he didn't see who she was looking for. She hunched over a magazine in her lap a little more and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. He could feel the shakily exhalations under his hand. "Petty Officer Coates," he snapped the name out.  
"Yes, sir?" The younger woman looked up.  
"Would you please take Colonel Mackenzie to get something to drink from the cafeteria?"  
Coates looked confused by the Admiral's request but acquiesced with a hesitant, "Yes, sir."  
Mac, however, began to protest. "Sir, I-"  
"That's an order, Colonel. You need a break." His expression softened. "Get yourself some milk."  
She gave him a slight smile. "Yes, sir." 


	9. chapter 9

He needed air. The waiting room's dimensions had begun to shrink until  
  
he felt trapped by its white walls. He had memorized the colorful prints on them until he knew where each picture was in relation to her.  
  
It was cowardly to run. But, damn it all, she had run, too. Faster and farther than he did. He didn't like the feeling of standing next to her  
  
without being with her. He hated the uncertainty that he saw in her, the uncertainty he felt in himself.  
  
They were supposed to be happy. Like Bud and Harriet. They were supposed to be in love and giddy over the arrival of their first child. They were supposed to be decorating they nursery in soft pastel colors, neutral enough for a little boy or a little girl. He should be with her right now, cooing over the newborns in their bassinets, listening to everyone tell them how it will be their turn next time.  
  
Instead, he was in a different wing of the hospital, stalking the corridors and trying to find some way to vent his energy. This wing was different from the maternity ward. Feelings of forced cheer and optimism replaced actual anxious joy. The people gracing these corridors used low voices and had pinched expressions.  
  
He saw her when he rounded the corner. Catherine Gale sat in one of the hard plastic chairs, arms wrapped tightly around herself, and silently rocking her body back and for the. He stopped his pacing and argued with himself for a minute. Taking a deep breath, he softly called her name.  
  
The walk back from the cafeteria was silent. Petty Officer Jennifer Coates opened her mouth and took a deep breath. Then closed her mouth again. Fiddling with her Coke can, she snuck a glance at the older woman by her side. She took a deep breath again and exhaled slowly.  
  
"Say it, Petty Officer, before you deflate."  
  
"Ma'am?" She really wasn't sure what she wanted to say or even if she wanted to say it. The Commander had been the first person to actually give a damn about her. But when she thought about it, the Colonel had always supported her, too. She had lost sight of that in her indignation on behalf of the Commander.  
  
"Whatever you have to say, say it." Jen could see the muscles in the Colonel's neck convulse and Jen swallowed hard.  
  
"Permission to speak freely?"  
  
"Jen, we're not in uniform an we're not at JAG. Just say it." Her fingers twisted themselves around the small bottle of milk in her hands and she refused to look at Jen.  
  
"I'm so sorry for the way I acted, Ma'am. I had no right. You've never been anything but nice to me. You and the Commander. And I'm so sorry."  
  
The Colonel's fingers stilled and she turned to face her. She was distressed to see the Colonel blinking rapidly. "It's okay, Jen. I  
  
understand."  
  
"No, Ma'am." She shook her head. "It's not okay. I was awful and I'm  
  
sorry."  
  
The Colonel's smile trembled, but held. Laughing a little, she rubbed her eyes. "Okay." Jen smiled back as they turned down the hallway that would lead them back to the maternity wing.  
  
The smiles disappeared when both women saw him at the same time. Harmon Rabb, Jr., sat in a waiting room talking to Catherine Gale. The blonde woman was obviously upset and her head leaned against his shoulder. The Colonel made a distressed noise, shoved her bottle into Jen's hands, and turned and fled. Jen was left alone in the hallway, her gaze ping ponging between the now standing Commander and the already empty corridor. 


	10. chapter 10

Tremors wracked her body and she heaved the rest of her lunch into the toilet. Cold sweat formed on her forehead and cheeks. She pulled toilet paper from the dispenser and blew her nose before flushing the toilet. She was tired and shaky and the cold from the tiles was seeping through the fabric of her dress. She leaned against the stall door and closed her eyes to settle her stomach.  
  
Visions of him with his arms around her stood out against the blackness of her eyelids. Choking on a sob, she wretched into the toilet again. Even her morning sickness hadn't been this bad, she thought somewhat absently.  
  
A knock on the stall door sounded over her gagging. "Ma'am?" a strange voice asked her. She turned her head and saw an unfamiliar pair of shoes under the door. "Do you need a nurse or something?"  
  
"No, thanks," she sniffled. "Just morning sickness."  
  
"Are you sure?" the voice sounded skeptical.  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."  
  
The feet retreated. She could hear the bathroom door open and the voice murmur to someone else. Go away, she thought miserably. Go far, far away. She scrubbed her hands over her face, smearing mascara beneath her eyes.  
  
God, she was miserable. Her head hurt; her throat hurt; her whole body ached. A fresh wave of nausea broke over her and she slumped to the floor of the bathroom.  
  
The knock this time was timid. "Colonel Mackenzie?" Jen Coates.  
  
"What is it, Jen?" Her voice was creaky.  
  
"Are you okay, Ma'am?"  
  
"I'm fine, Jen." She tried to push herself up off the floor. "Jen, could you do me a favor?"  
  
"What is it, Ma'am?"  
  
"Could you get my purse for me? I must've left it in the waiting room."  
  
"I'll be right back." Jen's voice promised the stall door. She could hear her hurried footsteps rush out of the bathroom.  
  
Fifteen minutes had gone by since she saw them in the waiting room. Two minutes to run down the hallway. Twelve minutes to throw up everything she'd ever eaten. One minute devoted to wishing that she was anywhere, any place at all, other than in this Godforsaken bathroom with images of her husband's arms around another woman dancing through her head. 


	11. chapter 11

He was pacing around the waiting room, arms gesturing as he interrogated its occupants. They were shooting him confused glances. "Admiral," he repeated the only question he seemed capable of asking, "where is she?"  
  
"I don't know, Commander." He could tell the Admiral's patience was wearing thin. His eyebrows were raised and he leaned forward to brace his elbows against his knees. Meredith slid over to run a hand down his back. "I am curious, though, as to why you would think I would know?"  
  
"It wasn't what it looked like." His explanation jumped to the end of the story, forgetting that the Admiral didn't know what it was. His arms raised in a useless gesture then dropped to his side again. He spun away from the Admiral only stalk back again.  
  
"What wasn't?" The Admiral stood up.  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, he sighed. "It's such a mess." He opened his eyes. In the corner of his vision, he could see Petty Officer Coates trying to sneak away with his wife's purse. "Hold it right there, Petty Officer."  
  
"Sir?" Jen froze in her tracks, purse tucked under her arm, like a cartoon bandit.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
Jen sent desperate glances to the Admiral, begging to be rescued. He returned her stares impassively, his own eyes darting back and for the between them. Sensing that no rescue was forthcoming, she offered up a half-truth. "She asked me to bring her her purse." She held the bag out for inspection.  
  
"Where is she?" He grounded the words between his teeth. "Tell me."  
  
The young woman made a distressed sound at the back of her throat. He almost felt sorry for her. He knew she was protecting his wife. If Mac didn't come herself, it meant that she was probably too angry with him and didn't trust herself. His fists clenched by his side before he turned an icy numb. Or she couldn't come. She was too upset. Or worse. Oh, God, the baby. The possibilities, now that he could think of the alternatives, tumbled over each other in his mind, each one worse than the next.  
  
As if sensing his emotions, the Admiral seemed to take pity on him. "Where is she, Petty Officer?"  
  
"The bathroom." Jen sniffled a little, her hands hanging by her sides. She looked, he thought, like an errant child forced to confess.  
  
"Take him to her." When she opened her mouth, he raised a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "Consider it an order."  
  
She pushed at the bathroom door near the cafeteria. "She's in here, Sir." She turned back suddenly. "Maybe I should go in first? In case someone else is in here?"  
  
He nodded reluctantly. "Hurry."  
  
She returned his nod and quickly ducked into the ladies' room, leaving him alone in the hallway. He sighed and scrubbed the heel of his hand over his face. What a mess. What a damned nightmare. He leaned back against the door, cracking it so that he could hear what was happening inside. Jen's voice echoed across the room. He couldn't make out distinct sounds, since he didn't hear anyone else, he assumed it was just the two women inside.  
  
"Jen," he called into the room, "I'm coming in."  
  
Jen's face reappeared quickly at the door. "Sir," she cast a glance back, "she says doesn't want to talk to you."  
  
"Tough." He slapped his hand against the door and pushed his way in. He stopped short when he didn't see her immediately. As he turned, furious with Jen for trying to trick him, he saw her legs under the stall door. Anger switched to worry. "Sarah?" he called.  
  
"Go away." Her voice was muffled and raw.  
  
"No." As he drew closer, he bent down to see that she was stretched out along the tiles.  
  
"Mac?" Panic made his voice rise slightly. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "Mac? Are you okay?" He could see her legs shift as she pushed herself into a sitting position. Tapping a finger against the door, he was surprised to see it give way under the pressure. He turned to Jen, who was hovering by his elbow, and pulled a dollar from his wallet. "Jen, would you go get the Colonel some ginger ale?"  
  
"Of course, Sir." She plucked the bill from his hand and didn't so much as hurry as she fled the ladies' room.  
  
"Mac?" He called through the door again.  
  
"Please go away." Her voice now sounded slightly miffed that he wasn't complying.  
  
"No," he repeated. He pushed the stall door open. She was sitting on the bathroom floor, eyes red ringed with traces of mascara beneath them. Her knees were pulled to her chest, causing her dress to fall in folds around her thighs. He was so used to seeing her squared away, even when she had morning sickness she hadn't looked this bad, that her appearance was almost shocking to him. "Come on, Marine, it can't be good for you to sit like this." When he saw that she wasn't listening to him, he tucked his arms behind her back and beneath her knees and lifted her up.  
  
"Put me down," she mumbled into his chest. Belying her words, she curled an arm around his neck. He set her down gently on the window ledge. "I want my toothbrush," she said when she noticed his critical appraisal. "It's in my purse."  
  
He helped her to the sink so she could straighten herself up. When she was looking more like her old self, he turned her around again. She tilted her face away from, her jaw set at an angle. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before letting his hands rest on her hips.  
  
Were they cursed? Doomed to have miserable relationships for the rest of their lives, not even allowed to be happy with each other? He wondered what kind of miracle it would take for them to move past the anger and the hurt. Tightening his grip on her hips, he lifted her back onto the windowsill. Her hands shot out to rest on his shoulders as she balanced herself. "Not as easy to do anymore." He gave her a small smile.  
  
"More of me to lift," she shrugged, her voice flat.  
  
"We need to talk." He rested his arms on either side of her.  
  
Her breath exhaled in a long, peppermint scented sigh. "Yeah," lifting a hand from his shoulder she brushed her hair from her eyes, "I know."  
  
"It wasn't what it looked like." There was so much between them it was almost impossible to know where to begin.  
  
"As I recall, I said something similar once." She pulled away from him and leaned against the windowpane. Her vision was fixed on something outside.  
  
"Her mother is dying and she needed someone."  
  
"Same with Clay."  
  
"Damnit, Mac. She wasn't in love with me."  
  
"She kissed you." She shot him a glare. "You kissed her. Why.." She stopped and swallowed. "Why don't you get to feel guilty about that? Why is it just me?"  
  
He paced away from the window. He didn't know what to say. Did he feel guilty? Yes, a little, but he did what he had to do to get her back. The charade, he told himself, was necessary if it helped him find out where she was. In truth, Catherine understood that. But she was different from Mac, used to dealing in half-truths and omissions. Deception was part of her profession. He felt worse about what this was doing to Mac than what he did. "It's not just you," he said at length.  
  
"What happened to us?" she asked quietly.  
  
"I don't know." He walked back to her and leaned against the window. "I didn't do any of this to hurt you. I did it to get you back. Christ, Sarah, I would have done anything."  
  
She sniffled and brushed away tears with the palm of her hand. "I know," her voice cracked. "Neither did I, you know." She twisted her body so that it was angled towards him. "Clay - Oh, God, Harm." Her hand shot out to grab his arm. "I could hear him screaming." The fingers on his forearm shook slightly before she tightened her grasp. They had never talked about this, he realized. Had never wanted to bring it up because talking about what happened before meant talking about the kiss. It was something he didn't want to hear about. He didn't want to hear what Webb said or why the man died trying to protect his wife.  
  
But she continued, trapped in a web of memories and guilt. "They were leaving me along because they thought I was pregnant. But, Clay--" Her hand clamped over her mouth and he could hear her breathe deeply through her nose. "They thought we were Israelis. Sent to spy on them.  
  
"There were these British missionaries," she rambled on, forgetting what details he knew and what she had kept buried. "The woman. She, ah," she paused, wetting her lips, "she told him that I wasn't really pregnant. Or at least that she suspected it. He stabbed me in the stomach. God, all I could think was thank God I wasn't." Her hand and his eyes drifted to her abdomen.  
  
"They gave us a choice. It was either Clay or me. He couldn't take anymore but he told me he would do what he could do to protect me. He - he couldn't stand. Couldn't even sit up. It was so easy to get around him."  
  
"Sarah, you don't have to do this." He didn't want to listen to anymore. He wanted to stick his fingers in his ears and hum until the words faded away. He knew the basic details. They had talked a little since their return. But she had always been detached, almost like it happened to someone else. And he hadn't pressed her for more, because-Because he didn't want to know. Too much had happened to him, to her, for him to deal with it all at once. And now, he was the victim of his own reticence.  
  
She picked up the thread of her story as if he had never spoken. "He killed them in front of me. Called her a Judas. Then shot them. Just shot them." The fingers of her other hand opened and closed as if to say "poof." She half-shrugged and then faced him, meeting his eyes for the first time since she started her story. "Then they were going to electrocute me. Or burn me, I wasn't sure which one. And then you showed up." She flexed the hand on his arm, squeezing it briefly to convey gratitude. "I didn't love him. But I was so grateful, you see, and he was dying. I lied to him and I hurt you. And he knew I was lying, but he let me. He knew I loved you. We talked about you my first night there."  
  
"So, what do we do now?" he asked lamely.  
  
"I don't know. Because I can't go on like this. I can't live with myself and I won't ever be able to if I have to see you looking at me that way everyday."  
  
He didn't bother to ask what way. He knew because he could see the same look in her eyes. "We can get through this," his voice rang hollow.  
  
"Harm."  
  
And he knew what she was going to say. In this bathroom, they were in neutral territory. They could give voices to their problems because they could walk out, shut the door, and leave them behind. The words wouldn't haunt them or shade the corners of the apartment. The could afford honesty because nothing in this room could remind them of it later. Still, he didn't want to hear the word come out of her mouth. "I know."  
  
"I just need a break. I'm not walking away from us. Just this mess." She gesture to the space between them.  
  
"I'll pack a bag when we get home."  
  
"No, I said it, I'll go."  
  
"Sarah, for once don't argue," he pleaded. "I'm not going to let you go. It was for better or worse."  
  
She nodded weakly. "I know. But I'm still. I don't want to stay there without you. Whether you rent a room or not, I'm still not going to stay there."  
  
He closed his eyes briefly. "Fine." He lifted his wrist to view his watch. "Come on. We should probably see if Harriet had her baby." He helped her off the ledge. "So, do you want to go house hunting this weekend?"  
  
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She should have known that her version of time and his would be different. "Yeah, yeah, I'd like that." 


	12. chapter 12

Her suitcase sat half-empty on the bed next to him. He watched her as she picked over and discarded half of her wardrobe, dismissing it as either impractical or soon to be too small. Piles of bags from maternity stores had been emptied. Their contents were now hanging in the closet or sitting in her suitcase. He wanted to be childish and unpack the clothes, keeping her there by drawing out her task.  
  
The silence was heavy and cumbersome. Neither spoke as she moved about the room. Occasionally, she muttered to herself as she held up a shirt or a pair of pants. He was growing alarmed at the amount of clothing making its way into the suitcase.  
  
"So, Harriet and Bud gave AJ a little brother, huh?" His voice surprised them both. She started a little before looking over her shoulder. He knew it was an inane comment. They'd both been at the hospital when Bud rushed out of the delivery room to announce Joshua Roberts' entrance into the world. They'd both visited Harriet later that night, who promptly started to cry when she saw Mac. He'd watched as the two women stumbled through the awkward scene, one rushing to apologize and the other to forgive. But it was a safe topic and he couldn't stand the silence any longer.  
  
"Yeah," she agreed softly. "They're going to have their hands full."  
  
"AJ's a good kid."  
  
"The best." She opened a drawer and pulled out a handful of underwear. Tossing it into the bag, she crossed the room to the bathroom. Her toothbrush and toiletries went into a smaller bag and she grabbed her make- up case before switching the light off.  
  
He tired to sound nonchalant. "How long are you going to be gone?" His words startled her into stillness. Her arms dropped to her sides, nightgown dangling loosely between her fingertips.  
  
"I don't know." She sighed and brushed her bangs off her forehead with the backs of her fingers. "However long it takes?" her voice rose slightly at the end to give it a questioning lilt. She held up the nightgown to resume folding it.  
  
His hand reached out and grabbed the bottom of it. Tugging it lightly, he managed to pull it away from her. "Harm?" Her eyes were wide and she stood, a statue of shock, and watched as he moved to put it back in the drawer. "What are you." she trailed off.  
  
"Don't go." He shut the drawer and turned to face her.  
  
"But I thought - we agreed." She dropped her hands to her sides, letting them fall against her thighs with a loud slapping sound.  
  
"I don't want you to go."  
  
She slid onto the bed. Lowering her head to her knees, she circled her calves with her arms. "Don't do this to me." She lifted her head slightly so he could hear her clearly.  
  
"Don't go," he repeated. He pressed his palms flat to the dresser and heave himself onto its surface.  
  
"We can't just make everything okay because we say so," she said into her knees. She loosened her grip on her legs and clasped her hands over her ankles.  
  
"Did I say that?" He was tired and this conversation was rapidly and gleefully dancing away from him. A part of him had hoped that just saying the words would make everything better. Like a prince from a fairy tale, he would be able to swoop in and pull them from the mire they'd created. He should've known she wouldn't let him rescue them or even give them a momentary reprieve. "But how do you expect to everything to get better if you don't stay?"  
  
She pushed herself up to rest her torso on her arms and elbows. Looking up at him from beneath her bangs, she asked, "Would it really be better if I stayed?" She glanced away and sighed. Cupping her chin in her palm, she added, "I don't really like myself right now. And I," she murmured into her fingers, "and I don't think.. I can't handle you not liking me at the moment, too."  
  
"I don't like myself any better," he offered as cold consolation. He didn't know to tell her, how to explain that he still loved her, but the circumstances were so outrageous, he wasn't sure about anything. "I don't not like you." He blew out an exasperated breath. "I never stopped loving you."  
  
"I know." She gave him a small nod. "I know. But," she took a deep breath, "this was such a mess for such a long time. I just don't know hot to fix it." She blinked rapidly. "I didn't either. Stop loving you, I mean. You know that, right?"  
  
"So then we do whatever it takes." He slid off the dresser and kneeled down in front of her. "But you have to stay. Please stay."  
  
"I still want to look for a house," she said after a minute. "With a big yard."  
  
He gave her a shaky smile. Leaning forward, he kissed her softly. "Deal." 


	13. chapter 13

A/N: There. All done. Thanks so much to everyone who sent feedback. I loved hearing from everyone and it meant alot to get such nice comments.  
  
****  
  
A brightly wrapped package with a tented note car on it sat in the middle of the kitchen table. The package itself was small and its shape divulged nothing of its possible contents. Setting his briefcase on a chair, he examined the small box. Judging from the precise creases in its silver paper and its exact placement in the center of the table, he guessed his wife was responsible for it.  
  
Panicking slightly, he began a mental checklist of possibly forgotten dates. Their anniversary had passed in an unremarkable fashion, neither one wanting to jeopardize the tenuous peace. They had taken the duck and cover approach to their social lives, quietly working through their problems at home rather than socializing to avoid them. Gradually, although he would be the first to admit it was far from perfect, their marriage was mending.  
  
It hadn't been easy. They'd fought their way two paint colors and four coats of paint for the nursery. They'd squabbled over furniture for the new and bickered over its placement. But they were both still there. And it was getting a little better each day. Not much, but a little.  
  
Picking up the tented car, he chuckled as he noticed the writing on the front: 'Open Me.' Flipping the card over, he saw, "Now!" He glanced around the room, searching for his wife. Everything was in place, not even a purse or bag to indicate that she was home.  
  
"Oh, for the love of God," a soft voice exclaimed at his back, "if I known it would take you this long to open it, I would have handed it to you unwrapped."  
  
He turned to find his increasingly rounder wife staring at him, arms crossed over her chest and foot tapping impatiently. "Did I forget something?" He shook the box experimentally. "I don't have anything for you," he admitted.  
  
"Just open it!" Feigning a nonchalance she didn't feel, she moved to the refrigerator to pour herself a glass of juice.  
  
"This is some welcome home." He crossed his arms, box still in hand, and smiled at her. He could tell that he was frustrating her. He could see the fog on her glass as she released short puffs of air through her nose while she tried to control her breathing.  
  
Her eyes smiled at him over the rim of the glass. "Welcome home." In truth, she had missed him; he'd been gone for a week investing the crash of a Marine helicopter. The house seemed large and empty when it was just her rattling around in it. He'd even missed a doctor's appointment while he'd been away.  
  
Her hand rested on her stomach. "Now open it!"  
  
"You going to make me?" He raised an eyebrow. He held it up to his ear and shook it lightly again. "Doesn't rattle," he observed.  
  
"No, that would be your head."  
  
"Funny, Marine. One more crack like that and I'll never open this box."  
  
She stomped her foot and nearly apologized just to get him to open his present. But then she relaxed and smiled at him. "Fine. Then I know something you don't know," she sing-songed. She started to leave the kitchen.  
  
"So are you saying that if I open this, I'll know the secret?" He glanced down at the box.  
  
"That's exactly what I'm saying. But you don't have to open it," she called from the family room.  
  
Following the sound of her voice, he began to pick at the tape holding the paper down. She had to refrain from bouncing impatiently on the couch. She knew he'd never be able to resist a taunt like that. It was just a matter of waiting him out. Trying hard to look disinterested, she picked up a magazine and began to flip through it.  
  
"How much tape did you use?"  
  
She fought to keep the gloating smile off her face. Bingo! "Enough to keep the paper from falling off." Giving in to her excitement, she put the magazine aside and propped her head on her hand to watch him.  
  
"Screw this." He ripped the pretty silver paper down the middle. Shaking the lid off the small white clothing box, he pulled out an infant-sized tee shirt.  
  
His jaw moved soundlessly as he read the words in the small pink heart on the tummy: Daddy's little girl.  
  
"The doctor slipped the other day and told me," she said softly, giving him time to recover. "I've been planning this all week." He sat down heavily on the couch. "She's never dating."  
  
"You've got a few years yet." She patted his hand consolingly.  
  
"I want her to look like you."  
  
She blinked rapidly against the tears. "We don't get a lot of say in it," she said with a watery chuckle, then squealed as he pulled her into his lap and kissed her.  
  
"Hope?" he asked.  
  
She thought for a minute. "Yeah, Hope."  
  
He blew out a relieved sigh. "Good, because the only other name I could think of was Ethel."  
  
"No."  
  
"Hester?"  
  
"No again."  
  
He opened his mouth and again and she rushed to stop him. "I'll cry."  
  
"You don't cry."  
  
"I'll start."  
  
"Fine. Hope it is." He cupped her face. "Love you."  
  
"Yeah," she sighed happily and tucked her head into the crook of his neck. "I know. Love you, too."  
  
"Margaret, Josephine, Beth or Amy?"  
  
"Aren't those the little women?"  
  
"Yeah. We could have four girls."  
  
"No."  
  
"To the names or the idea?"  
  
"The names," she answered.  
  
"Rapunzel."  
  
"No." She looked up at him. "This could go on for hours, couldn't it?"  
  
"I'm just getting warmed up. I haven't even pulled out the truly bad names like Olive or Ermentrude."  
  
She sighed and picked up her magazine again, preparing herself for what looked to be a very long night. 


End file.
